Swift by R. J. Anderson
‘Oh, my darling, no,’ said Marigold, getting up swiftly and gripping Ivy’s shoulders. ‘Discovering that I was a faery changed many things, but it never changed my love for you. That’s why I sent for you, so we could be together—’
‘What about Mica and Cicely? They’re your children too!’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Marigold soothingly. ‘But they take after their father, and his knocker blood makes them strong. They may live a hundred years in the Delve and never guess that they could have, should have, lived longer. But you…’ She tucked a loose curl tenderly behind Ivy’s ear. ‘You are more faery than either of them, and you have been dying since the day you were born. How could I abandon you?’
‘And yet you did,’ Ivy said, twisting away from her and backing up against the wall. ‘You left me there for five years, never knowing if you were dead or alive. Where were you all that time? Why didn’t you send us a message? Why didn’t you come back?’
Marigold sighed. ‘For many reasons,’ she said. ‘But the worst mistake was mine. I trusted someone I should not have trusted. And because of that, I was captured and dragged off to London, where I spent the next four years as a slave.’
London. Ivy had heard the name once or twice in the droll-teller’s stories – the greatest city in England, unimaginably huge and far away. ‘Whose slave?’ she asked, hushed with disbelief.
‘She called herself the Empress,’ said Marigold. ‘She was old, but very powerful, and her ambition was to conquer the whole faery realm before she died. I managed to escape her once, but her lieutenants captured me before I even reached the border of Kernow. And the horrors I witnessed after that, when she sent me and her other servants into battle…’ She passed a hand over her brow, as though to wipe away the memory. ‘I longed to send you a message, but I feared even to try in case it was intercepted. If the Empress knew about the Delve, she would surely have tried to conquer it as well.’
‘But you got away from her in the end,’ said Ivy, ‘or you wouldn’t be here. So why didn’t you send us a message then?’ It was a struggle to pull her turbulent thoughts together, but she had to know the truth. If her mother was a faery and not a piskey, if she’d been the pawn of someone evil, could Ivy trust her any more?
‘I wanted to,’ said Marigold. ‘But even once the war ended and the Empress was dead, it was some time before I was free to return to Kernow. And even then, there were…obstacles. I had to wait for the right opportunity, and a messenger I could trust.’ She glanced towards the door, as though remembering for the first time that Ivy had not come alone. ‘Where is Iago? I must tell him how grateful I am for bringing you to me.’
She must be talking about Richard. How many different names could one faery have? ‘He left,’ Ivy said. ‘I don’t know where he went.’
‘Ah.’ Marigold sounded wistful, but not surprised. ‘Well, at least he kept his word.’
‘Is that really his name? Iago?’
‘He had another name once, when we were both slaves of the Empress. But I also know why he prefers not to use it.’ Marigold gave a rueful smile. ‘He has made some powerful enemies, and I took a great risk in protecting him. But I also knew it would put him in my debt, and that he would do anything to be rid of that burden.’
So that was all Ivy had been to Richard – a burden. It wasn’t really a surprise, but it was surprising how much it hurt.
‘Do you understand now?’ asked Marigold softly, reaching out to touch her face. ‘I know I’ve hurt you. I know I’ve made mistakes. But now we’re together, and I want to make things right. Can you forgive me? Can we start again?’
Ivy hesitated. All her emotions pulled towards her mother, yearning for her approval and love. Only the part of her that feared to make herself vulnerable, that dreaded the thought of being tricked or betrayed, warned her not to trust too quickly. But she’d listened to her suspicions with Richard, and what had that gained her?
Besides, this wasn’t just about Ivy’s feelings any more, or even her mother’s. There was something far more important at stake – and it was time Marigold knew it as well.
‘I want to,’ she said at last. ‘I’m willing to try. But first, I need your help.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Cicely’s gone missing.’
Marigold looked shocked, then increasingly distressed as Ivy told how she and Mica had discovered Cicely’s absence. Soon her eyes were brimming with tears, and Ivy no longer doubted that her mother cared about Cicely’s fate.
But Ivy didn’t tell her everything. She wasn’t sure what her mother would think of her shape-changing, and she couldn’t bring herself to admit that Cicely’s disappearance was her fault. All she said was that Cicely had vanished, like Keeve before her, and that the search parties from the Delve hadn’t been able to locate either of them.
‘I thought she’d been taken by the spriggans,’ Ivy said, lowering her voice as the music from the adjoining room stopped. ‘Especially after Gem and Feldspar saw that stranger by the Engine House. But if there aren’t any spriggans, then—’
‘Mrs Flint?’ The door opened, and a girl with long brown hair leaned inside. ‘We’ve finished the lesson.’
‘Excellent, Claire. I’ll be right with you.’ Marigold wiped her eyes hastily with her fingers, then touched Ivy’s arm and whispered, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find her,’ before following the human girl out.
When she had gone, Ivy blew out a long breath and leaned her head against the wall. Difficult as it had been to tell her mother of her sister’s loss, it was a huge relief to know that she would no longer have to continue the search alone. But as she listened to Marigold apologising to her students for her absence and praising their hard work, Ivy felt a stir of misgiving. Her mother sounded so human now, so at ease in this strange new world. Even if they did find Cicely together, it seemed that Marigold had no intention of returning to the Delve – so how could they ever be a whole family again?
Chattering voices filled the dance studio, followed shortly afterwards by the sounds of multiple feet galloping down the stairs. The commotion in the other room had barely subsided when Marigold opened the door and said to Ivy in a puzzled tone, ‘There’s someone here to see you.’
‘Ivy!’ exclaimed Molly, popping up behind Marigold and waving a handful of papers. ‘I had a brilliant talk with the receptionist downstairs. She says I might be able to get into one of their advanced classes, if I can talk my mum into letting me audition.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Ivy, and turned to her mother. ‘Mum, this is Molly – she’s a friend of Richard’s. She was the one who brought me here today.’
‘It’s all right,’ Molly said in a confiding tone, before Marigold could speak. ‘I know you and Ivy are faeries. But I won’t tell anyone.’
She’d said faeries and not piskeys, but Marigold didn’t correct her, even for Ivy’s sake. ‘How extraordinary,’ she said faintly. ‘And you’re interested in our school?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Molly. ‘I want to be an actress more than anything.’
Oddly, that seemed to put Marigold at ease. The colour returned to her face, and she smiled. ‘Now I see where Richard comes in. I didn’t realise he had a protégée. Well, I’m not involved in the theatre part of our programme, but I’d be glad to put in a good word for you with Trix, our drama teacher. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for bringing Ivy to me.’
Molly blushed. ‘It was really nothing,’ she said. She folded up the papers and stuffed them into her pocket, then turned to Ivy with a shy smile. ‘Thanks for letting me come with you.’
And there was that thanks again, so casual it was almost meaningless. But Molly obviously meant well by it, so Ivy smiled back. ‘I won’t forget your kindness,’ she said. ‘I hope we’ll see each other again.’
‘Me, too,’ said Molly. She looked from Ivy to Marigold, her expression wistful and a little envious. ‘Good luck.’ She scampered down the stairs and went out.
Marigold laid a hand o
When Ivy and her mother left the dance school, the air was misty with rain. As they walked down the hill Marigold spoke to her in an undertone, drawing her attention to all the new things around them and comparing them to more familiar sights and concepts Ivy would know from the Delve. She pointed out shops and restaurants, galleries and museums, and showed Ivy how and where to cross the street.
‘I was terrified when I first came to Truro,’ she said, tucking her arm into Ivy’s as they reached the other side. ‘I don’t want you to feel that way. It’s a lovely city, and now that we’re together there’s nothing to fear.’
Before long they had made their way back to the open, cobble-paved area where Ivy and Molly had climbed off the bus. But now they were facing the opposite direction, and Ivy was surprised to see that half the square was filled with cloth-draped booths, much like the Market Cavern at home. The smells of hot food wafted towards her, savoury and sweet, and beads clattered as a merchant woman rearranged the necklaces in her stall. Nearby a boy in short trousers was juggling four balls at once, while a crowder with pink hair played a lively jig on her fiddle. They passed a booth draped with scarves in a jewel-box of colours, another full of wooden puppets that danced on strings, and a third selling animals knitted out of woolly yarn. They were coming to the end of the row when a brightly painted sign caught Ivy’s eye. It read: CORNISH PISKEYS – FOR GOOD LUCK! And beneath, in smaller lettering, Handcrafted in Kernow by local artisans.
Beneath the sign stood a table crowded with brown clay figures. They were the right height for piskeys, but their bodies were squat and their features comically grotesque. Was this really how humans imagined her people? Ivy picked one up, surprised at its lightness, and turned it over. The inside was hollow.
‘Like those, do you?’ said the seller, a weathered human with wild grey hair. ‘They’re special, those little piskeys are. Make a nice gift, or a souvenir.’
They looked crude and hideous to Ivy, but she didn’t want to insult him by saying so. ‘Do you make them?’ Ivy asked, but the man shook his head.
‘I just sell ’em, lass. Eight pounds each. Or ten for Joan the Wad, she’s the luckiest of all, see?’ He lifted up a figure of a bristle-haired piskey hugging her knees, but Ivy had never seen anything that looked less like Betony, or anything she was less anxious to own. She lowered the statue she was holding, about to excuse herself and walk away.
But she couldn’t put the thing down. It stuck to her hands, as though magnetised. A buzzing sensation spread through Ivy’s palms, and she looked up at the seller in alarm. But he only beamed at her and said, ‘Good choice. I’m fond of that little fellow myself. Want me to box him up for you?’
Ivy shook her head in desperation. ‘Mum!’ she cried out, and immediately Marigold hurried over. She seized the piskey in both hands and twisted it out of Ivy’s grip. ‘Not today,’ she said to the man, and set it on the table.
Ivy’s hands stung and her legs felt shaky, but she couldn’t help glancing back as Marigold pulled her away. The last thing she saw was the old piskey-seller waving cheerfully at her, before he retreated into the shadows and disappeared.
‘I’ve never felt anything like that,’ said Ivy, taking the teacup her mother handed her. They were sitting in the kitchen of the place where Marigold lived – she called it a flat for some reason, even though they’d had to climb a flight of stairs to get there. ‘It was like some kind of spell, but…humans can’t use magic, can they?’
Marigold poured her own cup and sat down across from her. The rain was falling hard now, pattering against the glass like tiny fists knocking to be let in. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But there are old powers in the earth of Kernow, and not all of those powers are good ones. The piskeys and the faeries fought some terrible battles here, and the spells they used against each other still linger in the soil…and beneath it.’
‘Do you think he knew that? The man who was selling them?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Marigold. ‘But I’d stay away from those statues, if you see them again. I’ve learned to be cautious of things made from Cornish earth.’
‘But you touched it, when you were helping me,’ said Ivy. ‘Didn’t it pull at you too?’
Marigold shook her head. ‘I could never sense things in the rock and soil, not the way your father and the other piskeys could. But then, faeries were not made to live underground. I had no idea how weak my magic was, or how much stronger it could be, until I came out of the Delve.’
She reached for Ivy’s hand. ‘You’ll see for yourself, when you’ve been here a little longer. There is so much faery in you, and you’ve been trapped in the earth so long…you’ve barely even begun to come into your power.’
Her tone was soothing, but the words made Ivy more uneasy than ever. She felt sure her mother was right about the Delve being poisoned – why else would Ivy feel so much better outside of the mine than she ever had living in it? Yet she didn’t like the eager, almost hungry way her mother looked at her when she spoke about power. Or the way she’d said when you’ve been here a little longer, as though she felt sure that Ivy would never leave Truro again.
‘What about Cicely?’ Ivy asked. ‘You said you had a spell that would help us find her.’
‘Yes,’ said Marigold, taking Ivy’s other hand. ‘A faery spell for searching, stronger than the one Betony tried back in the Delve. Close your eyes, and I’ll show you.’
The searching charm Marigold taught Ivy was meant to locate any faeries within fifty miles’ distance, or so she said. Since Cicely was half-faery, it ought to be able to find her – and it would show her where to find them, as well. Ivy concentrated as her mother told her, linking her power with Marigold’s as they searched for the telltale flare of her sister’s magic. But though she pushed her magical strength to the limit, she felt not even a single answering spark.
‘It’s not working,’ she said at last, letting go and knuckling her eyes in frustration. Was her magic too weak? Was her sister too far away?
Or had the worst happened, and Cicely was already dead?
Marigold touched her cheek tenderly. ‘You’re tired,’ she said, ‘and so am I. Don’t lose hope. We’ll try again tomorrow.’ She rose and began putting away the dishes.
Ivy didn’t want to wait. She wanted to keep searching for Cicely, even if it took all night. But Marigold’s magic was clearly more powerful than hers, and if they couldn’t locate Cicely together, what hope did Ivy have of finding her alone?
She slumped in her chair, picking at the too-soft wood with a fingernail, and looked around. Her mother’s flat was a good deal smaller than the cavern she had left behind, and painfully bare of decoration. The furnishings looked flimsy, all wood and cloth without a trace of stone or metal to be seen, and the white walls and gauzy blue curtains gave the place a washed-out, ghostly feeling. Even her mother no longer wore the rosy topaz pendant and earrings that Ivy’s father had given her at their wedding, only a thin twist of hemp with a few glass beads and shells strung upon it. How could she be happy living in such meagre surroundings, all alone?
‘What if we could get rid of the poison in the mine?’ Ivy asked. ‘Would you come back then?’
‘It’s not as easy as that,’ said Marigold, her eyes on the dishtowel she was folding. ‘Betony never thought I was good enough to marry her brother. And she hated me even more for having children, since she and Gossan never could. When I told her about the poison in the Delve—’ She put a hand to her throat as though the words choked her, and for a long moment she was silent. Then she said, ‘I can’t go back, even if I wanted to. I have a life here. And I can’t leave Serita.’
Ivy frowned. ‘Who is Serita?’
‘She started the Rising Star Academy with Trix, five years ago. When I came to Truro for the first time, weak and sick and not knowi
‘But there was plenty of dancing in the Delve,’ Ivy said.
‘Not like this,’ said Marigold, with a shake of her head. ‘In the Delve it was always the same steps, the same dances, over and over. Never anything new.’ She pulled out her chair and sat down across from Ivy again, her gaze eager and intent. ‘Don’t you understand, Ivy? There’s a price we pay for our magic, faeries and piskeys alike. We can do many things that humans can’t, but they have something we lack – creativity. That’s why we need them, even more than they need us.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Ivy said, a little resentfully. ‘Most of the women in the Delve have never seen a human, but they still create all kinds of things.’
‘Perhaps,’ Marigold said, ‘but the methods they use to make them haven’t changed since the day they went underground. Now and then you might see a piskey-woman with a new clothing pattern or a new recipe, if her husband or son brought it back from the surface. But that doesn’t happen often – you know how men are.’ Her tone became scornful. ‘As long as their beds are warm and their bellies full, they hardly notice what we women do.’
There was some truth to that, Ivy had to admit: she’d been annoyed by Mica’s selfishness too many times to think otherwise. But she also couldn’t forget how shattered Flint had been by his wife’s disappearance, the emptiness she’d left inside him that no amount of good food, or even the love of his children, could fill.
And Marigold hadn’t even asked how he was doing.
‘But when magical folk and humans work together,’ Ivy’s mother continued more brightly, ‘everyone benefits. We gain new ideas and skills from our human friends, and at the same time, our presence makes their creativity stronger. And the more time a faery spends with a human, the greater their shared creativity becomes. That was what happened with me and Serita.’ She gave a reminiscent smile. ‘Once I got up the courage to try the new dances she showed me, it wasn’t long before I could do them as well as she could.’